Wear Your Heart On Your Skin
by BleedtoLoveHer
Summary: "So, while his penchant for doodling along the margins of his notes might have developed into something a little more extreme, the way that his eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles is exactly the same as I remember." TattooArtist!Peeta AU.


**Author's Note: ** This piece was written for The Hunger Games Secret Santa Everlark Exchange on archiveofourown for Amy (atetheredmind both here and over at ao3). She wanted Peeta as a tattoo artist, and this is what I managed to come up with. I just thought that I would share it here as well considering a lot of readers might have missed it on the other site.

For any readers inquiring about my other stories (Someday, Infinity, and Perdition) - I am still working on all of these, and apologize for the lack of updates. Real life has kind of slapped me in face as of late, and I hope you'll all bear with me as I work to get these stories updated.

* * *

"Katniss? Katniss Everdeen?"

I've never been one for dramatics, but I swear to God, if I hear my name one more time today, said in that stupid, disbelieving tone, I'm going to scream. I don't even pull my head from the freezer that's holding what is surely the world's worst selection of frozen pizzas before answering.

"You know, I'll never understand why everyone feels the need to tack on the last name like that. I mean, how many other Katnisses do you people know around here?"

There's a split second of silence, followed by a quiet chuckle. Tossing the cheap, Red Barron box into the hand basket lying on the floor beside me, I sigh deeply before straightening out. After I manage to quell the annoyance inside of me, I lift my eyes from the floor and allow them to travel up the length of what feels like Panem County Resident #9032 that's managed to bother me in the short day and a half that I've been back in town.

I can say with great certainty that there isn't much that I've missed about this place. I haven't missed the small town mentality, or the clear social divide that runs through the area along with the train tracks on the south of town. I haven't missed the lack of decent restaurants, or this tiny, podunk excuse for a grocery store that I'm standing in. And I certainly haven't missed the people, which could explain the attitude that I'm currently exhibiting.

But, damn it, out of the few things that I _have_ missed, his blue eyes are near the top of the list.

I reach them quickly, not having recognized the rest of him. The last time that I saw him, the closest thing that he had to a tattoo was left over bits of cake icing that had somehow managed to smear across his forearms. Now those forearms, along with bits of the collar bone that I can see peeking out from underneath the fitted grey t-shirt he wears, are absolutely covered. With the exception of his hands, neck, and face, he's really more ink than anything else.

His eyes are the same, though, and thank God for that. Just like the last time I saw him, the morning after Prim's funeral, there's not a single drop of pity in them. And right now, dealing with the least difficult, but difficult nonetheless, goodbye of my last remaining family member, those blue eyes are just about the most welcome thing that I've seen since crossing the county line.

Peeta Mellark and I were never close in school, despite having been in almost all of the same classes since kindergarten, but I may or may not have spent an inordinate amount of time studying those eyes instead of whatever text book I was supposed to be focusing on. I often argued with myself that he started the whole thing. Even for someone as imperceptive as I've been told I am, it was hard not to notice the way that his eyes would always find me across the crowded hallways, or see his head peeking around the curtain that separated the kitchen of his family's bakery from the storefront whenever I'd bring Prim in on Saturdays.

I never understood why he was always staring at me like that. I had almost convinced myself that he felt sorry for me - poor little girl from the proverbial wrong side of the tracks. That small town mentality that I mentioned earlier was ingrained in me, and it was easy to think that he just looked down on me like everyone else. The idea that he actually_ pitied _me made me angrier than I would have liked to admit.

Then, in the tenth grade when my dad died, I realized that I couldn't have been more wrong. That was when I began to understand what pity truly looked like. It made my stomach roll and my insides shake with something just short of rage.

The way that Peeta Mellark looked at me was different.

So I started paying attention.

To how he would rub the back of his neck nervously after turning in his tests in geometry. To the way that one corner of his mouth would quirk up whenever the school secretary, Ms. Trinkett, would make a ridiculously unfunny joke during the morning announcements. To the length of his eyelashes and how impossibly golden they seemed when the light would stream in through the window that he sat by in the cafeteria.

So, while his penchant for doodling along the margins of his notes might have developed into something a little more extreme, the way that his eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles is exactly the same as I remember.

It's a welcome sight.

"Well, there's just the one, but she's such a rare occurrence these days I guess everyone just wants to make sure."

I'm quiet for just a moment too long and watch as his hand comes up to rest on the back of his neck. He runs his palm over the area and a stray blond curl makes its way out from underneath the black beanie that he's wearing. He moves to tuck it back into place and I can't help the grin that stretches over my face when I spot the half-finished game of tic-tac-toe that he has tattooed onto the inside of his wrist. Anyone that had ever stepped foot into the Mellark's bakery had seen the games on their old chalkboard tacked up on the wall alongside the register - a running score tallied along the bottom. I just never thought that I'd see one inked onto his skin.

"You look different," I blurt out, and immediately try my best to backtrack. "Not that it's a bad thing. I mean, not that you looked bad before... I, I... It's a not a bad kind of different."

I'm seconds away from reopening that freezer door and locking myself inside.

"You look exactly the same," he says, the smile evident in his voice. "And that's definitely not a bad thing."

I can practically feel the ugly, nervous laughter bubbling up in my throat when he must sense my discomfort, and changes the subject. Compliments, if that is what that was, have never been an easy thing for me to accept.

"It's been a while. How've you been?"

It's been nearly six years since I left this place. His words are an understatement to say the least.

"I've been alright, I guess. I've been _better_, of course." I pause and adjust my grip on the basket in my hands before I let the next rush of words out of my mouth. I don't want to open up a conversation that I'm not ready to have with the end of that last sentence. "I've been living out on the coast. It's nice there, but I'd be lying if I said that I didn't miss the woods from time to time."

There's a beat of silence and the way that he's looking at me - his mouth slightly open and eyes wide - doesn't surprise me in the least. That's probably the longest series of words that he's ever heard me string together. I fidget with the cracked plastic casing that wraps around the basket's handle and try to continue on as if nothing's out of the ordinary. As if everything about this scenario isn't out of place.

"How about you? How've you been?"

"I'm good," he says with a smile, shifting his weight from foot to foot. There's no way that he doesn't know why I'm back in town, but he doesn't seem to mind avoiding the subject. Just another thing that makes him (alright, maybe not just his blue eyes, but_ him_) one of the few things that I've missed. "I've been good. I'm living in my parents' old place now. It's weird, living in the house you grew up in, but I don't know... I guess it's kind of comforting in a way?"

His words confuse me. Mainly because it's so rare for anybody that's been in this town for as long as the Mellarks to just up and move, but I suppose that his parents must have decided that with Peeta and his brothers gone, they no longer had the need for such a large house. Of course, this only leads me to the thought of the man in front of me being in need of such a large house. Images of little blond-haired babies and some gorgeous (obviously tattooed) woman enter my mind and I find myself checking the ring finger of his left hand before I even realize it.

My stare must go on for a little too long. (Just like this conversation that I've done nothing but embarrass myself during.) At any rate, I feel my cheeks flush and can think of nothing better to do than take a step forward and gesture to his forearm. The forearm that is currently flexed tightly around a 20 lbs. bag of dog food, making every muscle in it and the rest of arm stand out at attention. The mental picture that I've carried for years, of a 22 year-old Peeta Mellark, standing at the back entrance of the bakery, a bag of flour over one shoulder, and another tucked underneath his arm, makes its way to the forefront of my mind, and I have to speak before I get distracted again.

"Sorry, I was just..." I trail off as I lean my head down closer to get a better view of the piece he has there. It really is beautiful now that I look at it. A ship wrecked against a rocky shore line, waves still crashing over the sides, with the form of a slender, dark-haired mermaid, no - siren, her mouth still open in song, sprawled out along the rubble that leads upward over his elbow and bicep. "That's lovely."

I look up as he shifts the bag and hope that the suddenly shy look on his face doesn't mean that I've managed to overstep any boundaries. It's gone as quickly as it came, though, and replaced with his usual, easy smile.

"Thanks," he starts, the grin never leaving his face. There's something comforting about the fact that he still smiles just as often as he used to. "If you ever plan on getting anything nautical themed done, Finnick, down at Studio 13, is the guy to go to."

I try to hold in my laughter, resulting in a pretty painful snort that forces me into an explanation.

"Yeah, Jo would kill me."

"Ah. Not a fan of tattoos?"

"More like insistent on being there when I actually get one."

"Got it," he says, backing up to grab a box of Fruity Pebbles from a shelf on the end cap of the aisle, before continuing in a voice that comes out sounding more unsure than anything that I've ever heard from his mouth. "So this Jo... Did he make the trip home with you?"

I laugh, nervous and inappropriate as ever, and he lifts an eyebrow in response. It's hard to decide which is funnier to me - the fact that this is starting to sound like a bad, made for TV movie, or that he's used the word 'home' when I haven't been able to identify anything with the term for years.

"Sorry. _Johanna _was my roommate and, no, she didn't come with me."

"Oh," he says simply, and the blush that invades his cheeks, in contrast with the heavy lines of ink that I can see swirling up over his dip of his collar bone, has got to be one of the cutest things that I've ever seen. If the hand not carrying the bag wasn't occupied by the box of cereal he just picked up, I'm almost positive that it would be rubbing at the back of his neck right about now.

"Yeah," I say, trying for a small smile that I'm worried comes off as more of a grimace than anything else. I have to force my eyes from the artwork that covers his skin and try my best to make eye contact without looking away. "It was nice running into you, Peeta. I should probably get going, though. It's going to be a big, big, big day after all."

One side of his mouth lifts up at my ridiculous impression and, for some reason, it makes the stupid joke completely worthwhile. He turns his body toward mine as I go to pass by him, and speaks with nothing but sincerity.

"It was good to see you, too."

I'm at the check out when I hear him call my name out for the second time. Placing my basket down on the conveyor belt, I turn back to face him. He's twisted away from me, in the process of laying the bag of dog food on the floor, and I lose focus on anything but what looks to be nothing but swirls of different colors and patterns that the rising cotton of his shirt has started to reveal. Reaching into the back pocket of his jeans, he pulls out his wallet and lifts a small card, black with raised, white font, in my direction. I turn it over in my hands, admiring the neat etching of a bird in one of the corners, but not really taking the time to read the words on it since he's starting speaking again.

"I just wanted to say that if you need any help, or anything... _with_ anything, feel free to give me a call."

A sixteen year old Katniss whose dad had just died would probably have thrown the card back in his face. A twenty-two year old Katniss that had just lost her little sister would have given him a tight-lipped smile and said 'thanks, but no thanks'.

A twenty-eight year old Katniss that's spent the last six years trying her best to heal, though? The one that is about to spend the rest of the day hoping that her mother recognizes her face at some point in the last few hours she'll spend in the house she raised her family in...

I whisper a 'thank you' so quietly that I'm sure it barely reaches his ears, and attempt not to revel in the way his fingers brushed mine just seconds before. He smiles then, the gesture so bright that I feel myself mirror it, and then he's gone.

I tuck the card into the inner pocket of my purse and tell myself that I won't need it. That I've had my fix of those blue eyes, and can go on just fine knowing that he's out there, and that the way that he looks at me hasn't changed over of the years.

I tell myself these things as if I don't already know that I'm lying.

* * *

She's been staring out the bedroom window for hours now. I should be used to it, really. After our father died, Prim and I would take turns bringing her dinner into the bedroom, making sure that she ate, getting her to and from the bathroom, and readying her for bed each day. It quickly became her new normal, and I'm certainly in no place to judge at the moment. I've been standing in virtually the same spot for the last four hours, watching her and wondering when I'll stop wishing for what used to be.

Somewhere, deep down, I'm almost positive that's what she's been doing for the last twelve years.

Glancing at the clock on the wall, I note the time and grudgingly step into the room. I kneel down beside her chair and the gentle smile she gives is almost enough to make me cry right here. The years between Daddy and Prim's deaths were filled with a quiet, catatonic kind of grief that I didn't understand, or have the patience for. There were, of course, days that were better than others - days that she would move from her spot by the window and maybe even manage a stilted conversation over a lunch thrown together just a few hours late - lukewarm soup and sandwiches with the edges just a little too burnt.

I took care of Prim, though and in her own, sweet, mild-mannered way, she managed to take care of me as well. I think that our mother, even in the state she was in, knew that. I think that's why, after the fire, the fog that had settled over her seemed to lift. For a bit, at least. With the two of us Everdeen girls, we were okay - we had each other's back, and that was something that she seemed to understand.

With Prim gone, though, it was like she suddenly came to the realization that there was no one left to take care of _me_.

And that was when the twenty-two year old me, the one that would have written off Peeta Mellark with a simple_ 'thanks, but no thanks'_, had the exact same reaction to my mother. The night of the funeral, my bags were packed, and by noon the next day, I had crossed the county line with no want to ever look back.

"Hey Mama," I say, my voice much softer than usual as I lean down to brush a strand of her greying blonde hair behind her ear. The action hasn't proved to be the most well-received at times over the last 48 hours, but she doesn't seem to mind so much at the moment. "We don't have much longer before we have to go. Is it okay if I sit with you?"

Her face is blank, her smile now fading as she directs her attention back to the window.

"It's weird being back here. It feels like hardly anything's changed at all. I... I didn't realize that there were actually some things that I missed..."

The lack of response is no surprise, but the fact that I feel the need to continue speaking is.

"I ran into Peeta Mellark down at the market earlier. You know, the baker's son? It was nice... He was nice. He's always been like that, though..."

"Martin's youngest?"

Her voice, soft and slightly hoarse from disuse, startles me.

"I hope he took after his father..." She trails off and the slow, steady grin that I haven't seen in a long, long time is coupled with a glint in her eye that's been absent for even longer. "Everyone always knew that Moira was a miserable twit."

Her hand comes up to cover her mouth in a manner not unlike a child that's just said something that they knew they shouldn't have. When she starts to chuckle behind her palm, I can't help but join in. It's true. Peeta's mother is awful - always has been. Taking my reaction as a sign that it's okay to go on, she lowers her hand and continues.

"He deserved a lot better than her. He _deserved_ to have what he really wanted." There's a pause, and I wonder if this is how the conversation is going to end. I'm confused by her words, but this is the most I've been able to get out of her so far, and can't help but hope for more.

She's been looking out the window for the last few minutes when she continues her line of thought.

"But, you know, so did I."

Her hands fold back into her lap and I know that's it.

I've never been much of a crier, but I bite my thumb until the skin is purple and fight back the tears that I can feel behind my eyes until there's a knock on the front door almost half an hour later.

I remember the man that they've sent over from high school, but if he recognizes me, he doesn't mention it. After packing my mother's things into the trunk, I ride in the car with them over to the nicer of the two assisted living facilities the county has to offer. We may be from the poor part of town, and I might have had to sell my car and break my lease, but I'd sooner live there myself than let my mother go to Hob Memorial. Compared to one another, Merchant Circle Assisted Care makes me feel like much less of a disappointment as a daughter.

It doesn't take long to get her things set up once we arrive. One large suitcase, stuffed with clothes, and another two boxes of personal care items, books, and pictures is all that she really has room for here. I'm glad that her room at least has a window for her to sit in front of. I arrange a picture of myself, taken maybe six months ago, on a shelf directly across from her bed. Rocking back on my heels, I tell myself that even if she can't remember my name at times, at least maybe it'll help her to recognize my face.

It's not long after, with nothing left to do, that I say my goodbye for the evening. I promise to be back tomorrow, and the silence that follows is expected. It's not until I'm almost out the door, my fingers closed around the handle that I hear her.

"Say hello to Martin for me, will you?"

She's not looking at me, but I nod anyway.

* * *

Almost as soon as the front door closes behind me, I dart right back outside. I'm quick, but the cab that brought me back to the house is quicker and already disappearing around the corner.

I wonder why I thought that I would be okay here by myself. Why I didn't realize that the quiet would be nearly suffocating, or how overwhelming the small, darkened rooms would feel once I was the only one in them. Gripping the front porch railing tight, I try to talk myself down.

My mother's things are all but gone, taking what remains of my father's along with them. I know that the bedroom upstairs, the first one on the right, has been cleared of Prim's belongings. Some of them I've brought back myself, packed safely away in the UHaul parked in the driveway. Others were scattered amongst her friends not long after I left town, and I often wonder exactly who walked away with what. It doesn't matter now, though.

I tell myself that the house behind me isn't filled with ghosts, but right now I know that I can't be here.

I need a drink. Reaching into my purse to retrieve the number for the cab company, my fingers instead close around the card that Peeta handed me at the grocery store earlier.

It's simple - straight forward and to the point. I trace my thumb nail over his name, and dial the number with my other hand before I can talk myself out of it.

* * *

It's been a while since I've found myself sitting in Abernathy's Bar and Grille, but judging by what I can see from my booth along the back wall, it doesn't seem as if much as has changed. Well, aside from the 'and Grille' tacked onto the name, that is. Six years ago the kitchen area in the back was more likely to house a completely sloshed Haymitch, slumped over on a rickety cot, than the actual appliances that I can see through the window behind the counter now.

Wonder how long it took the old drunk to realize serving food would allow for him to be open on Sundays.

Nearing the bottom of my second drink, I glance toward the door for what has to be the tenth time in as many minutes. I'd told myself that I would wait until Peeta joined me before ordering, but as soon as I walked through the door, I was glad that I hadn't made that promise to him. The bar is hardly crowded, but the few people that I do recognize are enough to set my nerves and mood even farther on the edge. I make eye contact with Cray, the dirty old man that used to try to watch the girl's soccer team practice from his car parked in the gravel lot across the street from the school, and tip my glass back once again.

"I see that I've got some catching up to do."

The sound of the heavy-bottomed glass slamming onto the table is a lot louder than I intend for it to be. He ignores it and slides into the spot across from me in the booth. The waitress makes her way over and I fail to hold back my snort when her hurried steps lead her to almost knock over the stool at the far end of the bar. I cover my mouth immediately, and Peeta bites the corner of his lip as he orders himself a rum and Coke and another of whatever I'm having. My first instinct is to tell him not to worry about it, but I swallow back the reply and instead say that I'll get the next round.

"I see that the ladies are still falling all over themselves around you."

"I don't know what high school you were going to, Miss Everdeen, but I barely even went on dates back then."

"Please. Delly Cartwright, Glimmer Anderson, Clove Matthews? Even Ms. Trinkett used to get all giggly around you," I start. The worry that my words come across as just short of stalker status is immediate, but my two vodka cranberries had been mixed with a heavy hand and I try to play off the words with a shrug.

Maybe I should take advantage of the new kitchen feature after all. Something to soak up the excess alcohol couldn't hurt.

"Delly was just a friend. Glimmer wanted to make her ex jealous. And Clove, well, I'd rather not think about that one..." He pauses to thank our waitress for what has to be the quickest drink delivery known to man, and then sends a wink in my direction. "But Ms. Trinkett _still _gets giggly, thank you very much. She came into the shop a year or so ago, actually. Butterfly tattoo. Right on her ass cheek."

I almost stab myself in the nose with the straw from my drink.

"You're kidding me."

He smiles and lifts his drink to his lips.

"I am," he says, taking a sip. "It's on her shoulder blade. Still, though. High school secretary, with her shirt off, babbling on about how much she enjoyed seeing me the hallways each day? Not an experience I'd care to relive."

I shudder, and the way that my vision shakes and seems to be a half-second behind the actual movements that my head makes tells me that maybe I should slow down. There's a rush of warmth that runs through me when his eyes meet mine across the table, though, and it has me reaching for my drink once again.

"So you're a tattoo artist now."

My voice is frank and Peeta nods a little before cracking another smile.

"I am."

"How'd that happen?"

I really am curious. There's just a slight disconnect between the boy that I remember and the man sitting in front of me now. If I'm honest with myself, I'm not sure that I'd care nearly as much to learn the story if it were about anyone else. No, I definitely wouldn't care if it were Marvel, or Cato, or even Thresh, whom I was actually friendly with back in school.

But Peeta... Well, with Peeta I actually listen as he explains to me what brought him to the path he's taken without trying desperately to think up some excuse to leave, or change the subject. There are times that I would probably _blame_ the alcohol for making me more talkative - asking questions, and actually responding to his, but as time trickles by tonight, I can only thank it.

It's not until I order my fifth drink of the night (immediately after finishing my fourth) that he covers my hand with his own, and I take a moment to try and steady myself. He nods toward the glass.

"Everything okay?"

I pause for a second, looking from his hand on mine, back up to his eyes.

"It's been a long day. Moving my mom, and all... I'm sure you heard about it. It seems like everyone around here knows the reason that I'm back in town." A nervous, unfamiliar sort of laugh bubbles out of me, and I cling to the only thing that I can think of to change the subject. "She doesn't talk much anymore, but she did mention your father today. I didn't understand a lot of it, but she said to tell him she says hello."

Peeta looks a little lost for a second, and I watch in silence as he unconsciously traces an index finger over the tattoo on the inside of his wrist. Slowly, he takes another sip of his drink, not meeting my gaze when he speaks.

"What kind of things was she saying?"

I don't answer immediately, and he glances up at me. There's a look in his eyes that, while I can't quite place it, feels familiar nonetheless. It makes my chest tighten and heart beat in an off rhythm way that has nothing to do with the alcohol, or how devastatingly handsome I'm barely ready to admit that he really is. So I tell him.

"That he's a good man. She said that she hopes that you take after him and not your mother. That he deserved better than her... That he deserved what he really wanted out of life."

He laughs, exhaling deeply at the same time.

"You know that they dated back in high school, right? Your mom and my dad."

I cock my head to one side, able to feel the skin between my eyebrows knitting together. I hadn't known that, actually. My expression seems to be more than enough of an answer, and he continues.

"He wanted to marry her. But then she met your dad, and I guess the rest is history," he says, squinting a little when the lights in the bar turn on. I had no idea that it was that late already. "Your mom is right, though. He deserved a lot more than he ever got from my mother. He passed away almost two years ago. She sold the bakery and moved farther south less than six months later. I had to fight her for the house."

I want to say that I'm sorry. For his loss. That his mother is a heartless bitch. Because I had no idea.

The word sorry is overused, though. You can only hear it so many times before you come to see just how meaningless it really is - before you realize it's something that people say when they don't know what else _to_ say.

"Your father was a wonderful man, Peeta," I offer instead, watching as the bartender wipes down the bar, and one of the waitresses begins to stack chairs on top of the tables. I don't want to leave. I don't want to go back to that empty house, but more so, I don't want this to be the end of my time with him. "I might not have been around for the last six years, and we might not have ever really known each other back in school, but I think it's pretty obvious that you're a lot like him."

He offers, but doesn't insist on paying my tab as we get ready to leave and, maybe it's just the still pleasantly warm feeling that I have from the drinks, but it makes me like him even more. At least enough to lean against his side while trying to dig my credit card out of my purse. After paying, I giggle to myself when I find myself thinking that he smells almost as good as he looks. He tilts his head down to look at me, but I just lift my palm up to wave him off.

I manage to make it out the front door of the bar and to the curb without any assistance. Even with what feels to be a fairly clear head, I'm almost certain that my line of vision is at least half a foot to the left of where it actually should be. While not sloshed, or anywhere near the point of waking up in the morning, not being able to remember anything that I've said or done, a good chunk of my inhibitions has definitely been lifted.

The air outside is muggy and still. I had forgotten how quiet it can be around here. It certainly doesn't make me look forward to the solitude that going back to that house will bring me. Turning quickly on my heels, my nose almost collides with Peeta's shoulder. He brings his arms out to stop me, though, and my cheek settles against the smooth planes of his chest.

He opens his mouth to speak, but I don't give him time to say anything before words come tumbling out of my own.

"I don't want to go back to my place tonight." His eyes widen for a split second and I realize how I sound. "I mean, it's just... _Ugh_. It's so _empty_ there now. I don't, I don't think that I can handle it right now."

His movements seem almost hesitant as he places an arm around my waist and pulls me in, close against his side. Once his feet start to move, though, his hold tightens and I feel his fingers relax over the curve of my hip. Despite the hot night air, the warmth that his hand radiates through my shirt feels nice and I wrap my arms around his waist, moving along with him in an awkward sort of sideways shuffle.

"Well, come on then." His voice is close to a whisper as it wafts down from where his chin is settled on top of my head. "I've got beer back at my place. And it's always feeling a bit empty there as well."

The walk actually helps sober me up a bit. At the risk of him possibly letting me go, I don't tell that to Peeta, though. When we separate, making our way through his front door, I feel the nerves start to bubble up, completely unwelcome, in my stomach. So when he asks whether or not I'd like a beer, I have no choice but to nod.

A few minutes later, we're both settled on the couch in his living room, with only the light streaming in from the foyer and one dim lamp in the corner lighting the room.

"So, random question," I start, pulling my legs up to my chest and angling myself toward him. "Which tattoos are your least favorite to do?"

He half-way mirrors my position, bringing his right leg up closer to his chest, resting it against the back of the couch. His hand falls lazily over his knee, loosely gripping the amber-colored bottle he's already come close to draining.

"I'm not sure what you mean."

"You know - tribal arm bands, hearts with the word 'mom' in the middle, Celtic crosses... flowers and shit."

He laughs and the sound is warm and easy, and has me unfolding my legs and leaning forward on my knees. My cheek presses into the cushion and I watch as he switches the bottle from one hand to the other. His eyes are the tiniest bit glassy, but despite that, he still seems uncertain when I feel his fingertips thread into my hair. It's more endearing than I ever thought possible.

"I've never had the privilege of doing a mom piece. Believe it, or not, I don't think that I've gotten sick of doing one certain _type_ of tattoo yet. I don't know, it just feels like sometimes I have the ability to read a person, and help shape a tattoo to suit them... Even the 'flowers and shit', as you so eloquently put it, can still be interesting."

"Well, let's see it then," I say, pulling away in order to sit up straight again. He looks confused, so I nod down toward his torso. "Saying that surely means that you have a flower tattoo somewhere on you."

He protests, laughing and saying that he doesn't have any of the stereotypical examples that I named off.

"I want to see the others, then." I drain the rest of my beer and rest the bottle on the floor beside the sofa. "Don't be shy. There's no way that you don't get asked about them on a daily basis."

I worry that I'm being too loud, too brash, too pushy. At least, I do until he straightens up and starts to lift the hem of his shirt. His voice is muffled and lost in the fabric as he pulls it over his face, so when the soft cotton passes over his head, I'm leaning in much closer than before.

"Sorry," he says, and it's suddenly hard to look at anything other than the finely sculpted, heavily inked torso in front of me. He balls the shirt in his fist and drops it onto the floor. "I had no idea that I was going to be doing any modeling tonight."

Draping his arms back over the side of the couch, he exposes more of his body to me. I know that if it weren't for the buzz humming through my veins at the moment, I'd probably feel awkward as hell. Openly gawking at this boy - man - that I essentially grew up with _should_ feel awkward. I take solace in the fact that I'm at least sober enough to realize this.

It's far too easy to get lost in the intricate designs and swirls of color that cover his skin. Without his shirt on, my eyes skitter from place to place, not sure where to look first. Random, haphazard paintbrush strokes make their way up his right side, eventually giving way to a small flock of birds, their outlines left unfilled. The style is indicative of the artist that he earlier explained to me had inspired him to really pursue art as a career.

Each piece is entirely different, but somehow there's a sense of cohesion that brings it all together. There are stars, outlined in bold, strong colors and other pieces that while beautiful, are unable to hold my attention. Not like the two blue pinwheels with their silver centers, one on each side of his chest.

I wish that I didn't recognize the symbol. I wish that the taste that they leave in my mouth wasn't so sour, and didn't remind me of my mother's words from earlier in the day. I wish that the horrible memory of Mrs. Mellark could be erased.

He squirms underneath my intense stare, and I cough a little. Wishing that I had more beer, anything break up this suddenly uncomfortable feeling that hangs in the air, I reach for Peeta's. He grins at me over the bottle, and it gives me the push I need to continue my quiet exploration.

I can now see that the shipwreck on his right arm extends up and over his shoulder. This close, I can make out the siren's silver eyes and the way that her dark hair tangles around her waist and extends into the air behind her. It's difficult to tell, with the random pieces inked intermittently across the area, but it's looks as if her hair is what leads into and makes up the quote covering the area below his collar bone.

"_The wait is long, my dream of you does not end_," I read aloud, reaching my hand out to trace over the letters before thinking better of it. I can feel the thrum of his heartbeat and swear that the pulse beating in his neck is actually visible.

My eyes slip lower and suddenly I'm laughing so hard I can barely breathe.

"Is that... Is that a _cupcake_?"

His head falls back for just a second before he tilts it forward again, all of his features scrunching in a look that's more adorable than I'm capable of handling. Prying the bottle from my hands, he swallows the last few gulps that it contains before letting it hit the carpet.

"It _is_." He grins, clutching at the fingers I still have curled against his chest with his own. "Do you have something that you want to say about it?"

"Nope. It's cute, it _suits_ you," I declare, my mind already jumping to another subject because I'm warm and tingly, and he's beautiful, and damn it... "Alright, if you're so good at it - at making sure the tattoo suits the person, what would you give me?"

"You?"

"Yes, me. What kind of tattoo would you give me?" I say, jumping off the couch and running toward the desk on the opposite side of the room. I turn back to look at him with a crooked grin on my face. "Don't tell me that I have you stumped, Mellark."

He sits up taller, placing his feet on the floor and facing me.

"I might have an idea."

"Show me."

He lifts a brow, unsure of exactly where I'm going with this. I'm thankful that my level of inebriation has been downgraded to simply a buzz, and make my way back to the couch. Pulling a black, felt tip marker out from behind my back, I thrust the object into his hands.

"Draw it."

He pushes himself off the couch then, and the inches between us are exactly that - mere inches. I note his lack of shirt once again and think about how if this were a cheesy romantic comedy (or more likely a skinamax flick), I would say something to the effect of feeling a bit overdressed right now. The thought makes the corners of my mouth tug upward.

I shiver a little as his hands come down onto my shoulders, gently spinning my body and pressing me down to the couch. Within seconds, he's kneeling on the floor alongside where I sit.

"Well, lay back then.

I do so without question.

"And lift your shirt."

Again, I comply. I pull the hem up, letting my hip bones come into view.

"Higher."

My stomach is uncovered.

"Higher."

I roll the cotton tank top up until it's grazing the bottom of my bra, and look at him questioningly. He nods, and uncaps the marker, not even hesitating as he draws the first long, thick line up over my side.

"Agh!" I flinch, letting out the unseemly noise. He laughs and lays his left arm across my hips to hold me down. I've got to give it to him, the steady hand that he draws with barely twitches.

"Quit squirming," he grins.

"It tickles."

He continues to lay out his design, but I'm concentrating too hard on the look of intensity on his face to pay it much mind.

"Well, I can promise you that an actual tattoo gun is going to be a lot more painful than ticklish."

"Pain I'm used to. I can deal with the pain."

His eyes flit momentarily over to the burn marks that cover the side he's not drawing on.

"I know."

I swallow hard, worried for a brief second that I've ruined whatever idea he's been working on.

"But anyway... Carry on."

The feeling of the cool, felt tip moving across my skin is still too much, though. I wriggle a little underneath its movements and he presses his forearm down harder, his elbow dipping in between legs to pin me to the cushions.

There's a silence that I just can't handle. My breathing is far too loud and troublesome.

"Why there? Why the side, and the ahh-" I squeal as he moves over a particularly ticklish spot. "... the rib cage?"

"Well," his tongue slips out of his mouth to wet his lips as he works. "You're a private person. You wouldn't want something like to this be on display 24/7. I figure that it only makes sense for this to be in a place that you can _choose_ to show people."

"Makes sense. Why not somewhere else, though? Like - I don't know, my hip, maybe?"

"Because," he states, dragging the marker up in one sure movement, letting the lines of whatever he's drawing curve inward, over my stomach, and then up to just below the curve of my breast. "You, Katniss Everdeen, never do anything small."

"Is that so?" I peek down, able to make out the trunk and branches of a stylized tree now.

"Oh yeah. I mean, you decided that you needed to get away from this place all those years ago? You picked up and moved without even looking behind you. Your mom gets sick? You leave the life that you've built and come back," he muses.

He's not wrong, but I get the feeling that he's a little embarrassed by the spiel he's just gone on. Truthfully, I don't know what to say to any of it, so I just lie here and let the feeling of his hands working their way across my stomach distract me. A few moments later, he cocks his head to one side. The soft, black fabric of the beanie that he's been wearing since this afternoon brushes against the tiny bit of thin material of my bra that's been exposed.

"There."

I scootch up just far enough to get a better look at the finished product. The basic outline of the tree and its limbs takes up nearly the entire expanse of my side. It's the vine winding up its trunk, though, out and over the lines of the branch that follows the curve underneath my chest, that really catches my attention. Tiny flowers, one of the few that I can actually recognize on sight, dot its length.

"You've thought about this a lot," I say, barely touching my fingertip to one of the Primroses over my ribs.

"I've thought about _you_ a lot."

I gulp, exhaling deeply before I go on.

"...and what exactly have you thought about me?"

I can't decide whether the room's been this hot all along, or if it's a new development.

"Is this a conversation that you really want to have right now?"

"I don't see why not," I shrug, shifting back into a lying position. I try to ignore the way that his elbow feels, pressing down almost just over the dip between my legs, but the heat that is brewing deep in my belly doesn't want to let me.

"You know, there were the generic things. Like how you were doing. Where you were living. If you were happy..."

He turns his attention back to the design on my stomach, biting the cap of the marker between his teeth before placing the tip to my skin once again. He starts to add shading and detail to the sketch. I can't stop myself from wiggling and he looks up at me, lifting a brow at the way that I've pretty much managed to work his elbow almost completely between the apex of my thighs. My already warm face grows even hotter.

"...If you had a boyfriend."

I laugh and my stomach constricts underneath his hand in a way that somehow feels even more intimate than everything else so far. He starts to add swirls of leaves that offshoot the branches and I shiver once the backs of his fingers brush against the swell of my breast. The ink is covering more and more skin, and I nudge the underwire of my bra up slightly, allowing him more access to the flesh there.

He exhales slowly, and I feel goosebumps break out over my stomach.

"...If you ever thought about me."

I want to tell him that I have, but the words are caught in my throat, along with all of the air from my lungs. The only thing that I can think of to do is reach for that stupid black beanie and pull it from his head. I like his curls - I always have. The way that they fall over his forehead. How their ends are a lighter shade of blond, almost impossibly golden like his eyelashes. And now, how they feel in between my hands as I thread my fingers into them.

His pursed lips send a burst of cool air over my skin. He follows the line of his design from my waistband up, attempting to dry the ink. I'd have to be blind not to see the way that his mouth draws nearer and nearer to my body the farther along he goes. And I'd have to be an idiot to draw attention to it and make him stop.

I don't find my voice again until his chin is resting on my torso and he looks up at me through his eyelashes.

"I did... More than I realized."

I inhale sharply through my teeth as he places a featherlight kiss to my skin. He keeps his eyes locked with mine as he does it and, upon seeing my lack of resistance, repeats the motion. His hair slips in and out of my fingers as he continues his path north and I close my eyes to revel in the sensation - both of his lips on my body and the silky strands underneath my palms . I feel the warm breath of his open mouth a fraction of a second before it presses down onto the soft, exposed skin that's peeking out from underneath my bra and shirt.

My fingers tighten in his hair immediately, nails scraping against his scalp. He lets out a quiet moan that somehow goes straight to what has slowly become a dull ache between my legs, and my hips buck upward before I can stop them. Not that I can find it in myself to want to at this point.

He looks at me through his lashes again, and suddenly everything is a flurry of movements and limbs. His mouth lands just above the collar of my tank top, slipping sloppily toward the base of my neck, and then up to the hollow between my jaw and ear. All the while, it's like I have no control over my arms. Even with the heavy, weigh-downed feeling from either the alcohol, or just the rush of endorphins from the man with me, I manage to bring him from his knees, up onto the couch, hovering over my body.

His lips barely touch mine before I push lightly on his chest, moving him just far enough so that I can tear my shirt up and over my head. He drops his head back down, running his tongue along the crease of my lips, while simultaneously popping the front clasp of my bra. The strong, callused hands, along with the feel of his tongue, and the pressure from where I can't stop grinding myself against the leg he's slipped between mine, is overwhelming.

Thoughts of exactly how right this all feels burn through the haze of drunkenness for a bright second, and I clutch at his back. While I might not have always consciously wanted this, deep down, I think that there's been something about Peeta Mellark that's pulled me in for years now.

"No idea... You have no idea, Katniss," he mumbles against my skin, and I melt back into the cushions, unable to focus on anything but the feel of our bodies moving together.

My fingers fumble with his belt, but soon enough I have it undone and am pushing his worn jeans over his hips and then the rest of the way down hurriedly with my foot. I'm so concentrated on my goal that I completely miss him easily popping the button of my pants. But there is _no_ way that I could miss the fingers that work their way over the front of my panties, pushing the hem to the side and dipping inside. It's close to mortifying just how wet I am, but any worry of embarrassment fades quickly when I hear and _feel_ Peeta's strangled voice against the column of my throat.

"_Fuck_."

"Tell me about it," I mumble, and he laughs before latching on to my mouth again.

If we were completely sober, I'm positive that there would be more than a series of hurried touches. Our clothes wouldn't be haphazardly tossed about the room, and we'd take the time to slow down and undress one another. Maybe the condom wrapper wouldn't be crumpled in a corner wherever he'd thrown it after finally managing to rip it open.

More time for exploration and less of such a sense of urgency.

If I were completely sober, though, there's no guarantee that this would even be happening. And I want it to happen. Oh god, do I want this to happen.

He places his lips to my forehead. My eyes flutter closed and he brushes soft kisses over the delicate skin there just as my hand closes around him, guiding him to my entrance. His mouth captures mine in a long, languid kiss as I feel his body come to rest, flush against my hips. It creates an interesting balance that, even through my muddled mind, stands out as feeling both wanted and cherished at the same time. Something that I'm not sure that I've ever felt.

The muscles in my legs start to jelly and the one that's been hooked behind his legs falls to the wayside. Peeta's hand trails down its length, gripping at the back of my thigh and pulling it closer to his body as if he can't stand it being even that far away. The tips of his fingers spasm, digging into my leg for a second before inching their way over the top and farther up to where we're connected. His teeth latch lightly onto my nipple the second his thumb finds my clit, and the slow and steady burn that's been building ignites into a full-blown inferno.

Not long after, Peeta body stiffens and then sags on top of me. As his head falls to the crook between my neck and shoulder, I turn - letting my lips run along the line of his cheek. He's smiling when he tilts his chin up to look at me, and I can't stop myself from taking hold of his face to bring him closer. Pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth and then temple, I start to slip farther back into the arm of the couch.

The weight of him, pulled half on top of me, is nice, but I know that my bladder will hate me in the morning if I don't move soon. There's a look of panic on Peeta's face when I go to sit up - almost as if he's afraid that I'll leave as quickly as I reappeared in his life.

"I just need to use the bathroom," I offer, sliding out from underneath him and pushing myself to my feet.

I nearly fall over one of my sandals that lays in the middle of the floor, ruining any attempt at a calm, cool, naked walk across the living room. I can only laugh at myself, though, turning to face Peeta when I realize that I don't know where the bathroom even is. He's smiling at me, his hair falling in waves over his eyes, with one hand extended in the direction of the hallway.

By the time that I stagger my way back into the living room on still-buzzed sex legs, he's sitting up on one end of the couch, an apprehensive look on his face. I settle back down, my head hitting the cushion behind it heavily. Reaching out to catch the crook of his elbow, I pull him down, covering my body with his.

"That," he says, spreading the hair that's fallen over my left shoulder out across my still-naked chest. "Was not exactly how I pictured this happening."

I inhale at his touch, concentrating on the way his fingers, stained with the ink that we've managed to smear between our two bodies, draw out patterns. It's almost enough to lull me to sleep. I slide my finger down the length of his nose, grinning at the black smudge that runs along it. My hands are no better off, though, and I wonder briefly if the pads of my thumbs have left evidence of their earlier hold on his hips.

"So you've pictured this happening, have you?"

His laugh tickles my ear and I lift my shoulder, trapping his head there against my neck.

"Well, yes... But that's not what I meant."

"And what did you mean?" My voice is sleep-filled and barely audible as his breath falls in even puffs over my throat.

"When I heard about your mom... and that you were coming back... I guess I always had this idea in my mind of how I would go about things with you if I ever got the chance."

"I don't know. I'd say it was a pretty good way of welcoming a girl home."

_Home. _

Despite, or maybe because of, the slight buzz still running through my system, laying here all tangled up in Peeta Mellark feels more like the meaning of the word than anything has in a long, long time.


End file.
